by Polly Iyer
He stopped.
Diana imagined his memories brought him back to that night.
“Nikki was as straight as they come. Churchgoer, helped out at the children’s shelter, always there for friends. She was horrified and told me immediately. Unfortunately, Chenault’s wife was coming out of the bathroom too. She overheard her husband’s pitch. She must have been living in a vacuum not to know his reputation, because she was as shocked as Nikki.”
“They say the wife is the last to know,” Diana said. “What did you do?”
“I confronted him. Not then. I didn’t want to embarrass his wife or mine any more than they had been. The next day I surprised him at his district. Told him if he ever hit on my wife again, he’d have to deal with me. If someone had killed Chenault eight years ago, I’d be first on the suspect list, because a few cops overheard the threat. I didn’t care. I said what I meant.”
“Now you find out that gender is no barrier for him. A man for all seasons.”
“If so, I’m surprised. One comely young TV reporter is practically on his payroll. She writes him up as if he were Batman and Superman rolled into one.”
“What does this guy have that makes women cheat on their husbands?”
“He’s good looking, if you like the type. I’ve heard a few cops call him pretty. A friend of my wife’s, who barely escaped his lure, said he made women feel as if they were the only one in the room. I’m sure you’ve met men like that.”
Diana’s guffaw turned heads in the restaurant. She lowered her voice. “I spent years in show business, darling. Most of the so-called heartthrobs I’ve met over the years tended to be so full of themselves I couldn’t take them seriously.”
Lucier smiled, exposing his overlapping front tooth, which she adored.
“I love you,” he said. “If I’m moody when we’re together, kick me in the ass.”
“It’ll be my pleasure.” She cut into her coq au vin, savored the rich flavor. “You think Chenault killed Keys?”
“Possible, if they were lovers and Moran threatened to out him.”
“Don’t forget the guy with the bullet hole in his forehead. Those silver eyes.” Diana shivered. “He’s part of the equation.”
“Mathieu Soulé. Maybe he and Moran were lovers.”
“No way. Keys was a classy guy. A gangbanger wouldn’t be his taste. A good-looking, charismatic cop is another story. Even if Chenault and Moran had a thing, that doesn’t mean Chenault killed him. And where does Soulé come in?”
Lucier shrugged. “We’ll wait until after Beecher questions the girl’s family.” His phone beeped. “Speaking of the devil.” He answered, “Lucier,” and listened. “A couple of years ago, right?”
He paused again, his expression twisting into one Diana couldn’t decipher.
“Cross check similar court cases like Soulé and Winstead in the last few years. See if you come up with any who’ve gone on to that great jury in the sky. I’ll be there after we finish eating.”
Diana waited.
“Three years ago a guy by the name of Henry Winstead got into his car, dead drunk. He’d already racked up two DUIs. He crashed into a family coming back from vacation. All four people in the car died.”
A moment of hesitation interrupted Lucier’s delivery. Had the Winstead story been another reminder of his family, killed when a truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and crossed lanes head-on into his wife’s car? The moment passed, and he continued.
“Winstead walked away without a scratch. He got ten to twenty, paroled in eighteen months because his rich daddy called in a few markers. That was two years ago. He went missing a couple of weeks ago. Most everyone thought he was on a bender. Divers searching Bayou St. John for a missing woman found his body in his submerged car.” Lucier sighed. “I wouldn’t think anything of the discovery if we hadn’t discovered Soulé’s murder.”
“So you believe Soulé’s dead?”
Lucier took a bite of his steak and nodded.
“You think they’re connected?”
“I’ll let you know after Winstead’s autopsy, but I have a bad feeling.”
“Finding Soulé’s body might give us a clue,” Diana said.
“Us?”
“Yeah.”
“Just might.”
“Well, then?”
Chapter Ten
Playing God
At eight the next morning, Diana sat in the same chair as the first time she’d channeled an article of clothing in Lucier’s office almost a year ago. In spite of the fleeting months, she felt as if she’d known him her whole life.
He’d made sure they were the only two in his office. Beecher kept everyone else out, though the team knew what was going on.
Soulé’s black T-shirt with the face of a skeleton emblazoned on the front lay draped on the desk.
Lucier studied her. “Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. “I’m here. Remember that.”
She picked up the shirt and took a few deep breaths. After letting out a long, steady stream of air, she offered Lucier a half-hearted smile and closed her eyes. She hoped the result justified his confidence.
The cotton shirt heated in her hands. Warm but not hot. Time disappeared; everything stopped. Darkness provided a backdrop to whatever image developed, fuzzy at first, now growing sharper. Would she view the scene as the victim or the killer?
A few steps in his shoes, and she knew she’d become the person who put an end to Mathieu Soulé’s life. “The ground is rough. Rocks and sand. Trash and junk.” Fleeting images flashed across her mind. “A boarded-up house, decay. Grass overgrown. It’s nighttime and dark. No lights anywhere.” She strained to see. “A dark boot kicks at a blue door with a board across the middle. The door pushes open, hanging on by one hinge.”
Her heart thumped. “Inside is pitch black.” Sniffing the air, she said, “The room smells earthy and dank. Musty, like it’s been closed a long time.” Her nose pinched from the odor. “Two sets of hands heave a black tarp into a corner. An old sofa is tossed upside down over the tarp. It lands with a thud.” She turned her head, bit her top lip.
“Can you see anything with a name on it outside?” Lucier asked. “A street sign? A number on the house?”
She shook her head, stopped. The vision faded. Diana didn’t move. She fought to hold the image, but the cotton in her hand had cooled. She opened her eyes. “That’s all. If Soulé was in that tarp, he’s in that house.”
In spite of all the tests, all the successes, people still doubted her gift, except for Lucier, the love of her life. “What are you going to do?”
“Search for the body.” He clicked the intercom for his team, and within minutes the three men entered the office. He brought them up to speed on Diana’s vision.
Halloran perched on the corner of the desk. “Could be anywhere.”
“I’m betting it’s in New Orleans,” Lucier said.
“The lower Ninth Ward?” Beecher said.
Lucier nodded. “My guess. Parts of that area are still like they were after Katrina. How many blue doors could there be?”
“And inside,” Cash said, “is ―”
Diana tossed the shirt on the desk. “Mathieu Soulé.”
* * * * *
Charlie Cothran scheduled Henry Winstead’s autopsy for one p.m. Lucier arrived at three, donned a surgical gown over his suit, covered his hair, and dabbed menthol gel under his nose to disguise the smell of a decayed body. Watching an autopsy wasn’t his favorite thing. Most cops agreed.
Except for the table on which the body lay, the room was a pristine visage of stainless steel tables and sinks, tile floor and walls. Floor drains allowed the room to be washed down of spattered blood, bone, and tissue matter.
Cothran, standing over the eviscerated remains of Winstead, acknowledged Lucier with a nod. He wore scrubs covered by a surgical gown and a Tyvek apron, gloves, and protec
tive eyewear. He continued dictating his findings into a mic hanging overhead.
Lucier waited patiently and listened.
Winstead’s murder was payback for taking the lives of an entire family, just as Soulé’s death was revenge for the rape of a little girl. Now, with Diana seeing two sets of hands, at least two people were involved. There was nothing worse than psychopaths on a fanatical mission, and the more Lucier learned, the sooner he and his team could stop them from killing someone else.
Soulé and Winstead were dead. Were there more, and where did Keys Moran fit in this bizarre puzzle?
An hour later, Cothran called for an assistant to close the body. He motioned his visitor into his office. Lucier, anxious to hear Cothran’s findings, removed the stack of papers on the extra chair, placed them on the desk, and sat.
“Winstead was in the water for a week, a little less. After death, alcohol in the blood increases, but this guy was soused when he went in.” Cothran pointed to Winstead’s head. “Bruises on his jaw and neck suggest someone forced his mouth open, possibly to pour liquor down his throat.”
“If we can confirm another death, I think we have an avenger or two.
“If you can’t confirm the death, how can you be sure there is one?”
Lucier cheeks warmed.
“Never mind,” Cothran said. “Ms. Racine had a vision, right?”
Lucier shrugged.
“Hard to ignore her track record. Who’s the victim?”
“A twenty-three-year-old gangbanger by the name of Mathieu Soulé. He’s disappeared. Both Soulé and Winstead left victims in their wakes. Someone doesn’t think they paid a high enough price. Soulé raped an eleven-year old, and Winstead ―”
“Committed vehicular homicide,” Cothran said, finishing Lucier’s sentence. “I remember the case because two of the family members wound up on my table. I also remember the uproar when he served less than two years and got parole, thanks to his wealthy daddy greasing the palm of the right people. MADD was mad, mothers united against the decision, protesting in front of the courthouse. I agreed with all of them. I’ve seen too many people with their lives in front of them dead on my table for someone to be bought out of murder, or in this case, manslaughter.”
“Agreed.”
“So what now?”
“Dunno, but your findings bolster my suppositions. Henry Winstead was forced to drink until he was dead drunk. Then someone drove him into Bayou St. John in his chosen murder weapon.”
“His car,” Cothran said. “Live by the sword, eh?”
“Exactly.”
“The way verdicts are coming down these days, your avenger has an endless supply of potential victims. To tell you the truth, if you’re right, I kind of admire what he’s doing.”
One part of Lucier wanted to agree. “Except he’s taking the law into his own hands and playing God, determining who should receive the ultimate punishment.”
“He’s righting a wrong.”
“Our judicial system isn’t perfect, Charlie. Judges make bad decisions, some on the highest court in the land, depending on which side you are. But it’s all we’ve got, and it’s worked relatively well for almost two hundred and forty years. We can’t become a vigilante nation. It’s only a matter of time before this guy will make a mistake and kill to protect his mission. He may already have.”
“Moran?”
“Maybe.” Lucier wouldn’t mention Moran’s alleged connection to Denny Chenault. Not until he had more facts, and those facts could only come from Chenault himself. This was an interview he’d conduct alone. He wouldn’t expose a cop’s sexual preference if the cop chose to remain in the closet. And he wouldn’t make the interview official.
Lucier called Chenault as soon as he left the morgue. “Eaten lunch yet?”
A long hesitation prefaced Chenault’s response. “Um, no. Been busy.”
“I’m over your way. How about Hot Diggity Dog?”
“Ten minutes?”
“Perfect. See you then.”
Chapter Eleven
One on One
Lucier got to the sandwich shop a few minutes early and pushed his way through the crowd, nodding to a few cops he knew. Most liked the place because the hotdogs were big, juicy, and all beef, with chili and hefty servings of fries and onion rings, and it was cheap.
Chenault already stood in the order line. No one would ever peg him for a cop. More a New Orleans mover and shaker with his double-breasted suit and silk tie.
“I’m starved,” Chenault said. “I’ve been on a stakeout all morning.”
Both men ordered a double-double special and iced tea, then found an empty table in back. They’d just unwrapped their silverware when the waitress appeared with their tray. “Fastest service in New Orleans, which is another reason this place is always packed.” Lucier spread the chili more evenly on his bun, took a bite.
“So what did you want to see me about?” Chenault asked.
Lucier wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Keys Moran.”
Chenault’s chewing stopped for a long moment, his eyes riveted on Lucier. He took his time swallowing. “What about him?”
“You were friends?”
“So.”
“How well did you know him?” Lucier asked.
Chenault swigged his tea, then put it down on the table. “Why don’t you just come out and say what you want to say, Lieutenant.”
Lucier had hoped this would be a friendly conversation, but the edge in Chenault’s voice put that hope to rest. “I did.”
Chenault snorted. “We knew each other. I liked his music and went to hear him play whenever I could. I’m sick someone killed him.”
“Where were you the night he was killed?”
“Ah, that’s what this is about.” Chenault’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the readout and slipped it back in his pocket. “I should have known. The great lieutenant is trying to pin a murder on a cop.”
“You know me better than that. You’re not the only friend of Moran’s I’m asking, Denny. Would you rather I called you into interrogation, made it official?”
Taking his time, Chenault said, “I was playing cards.”
“Until five in the morning?”
“No, till about three, after which I went home to grab a few hours’ sleep. I had an early shift. I can give you everyone who was there.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”
“I’ll email them to you.”
Lucier pulled out a notebook and pen from his jacket’s inner pocket. “I’ll write them down now. Save you an email.”
Chenault’s jaw worked overtime, grinding his back teeth. “Rudy Hodge, Marty Feldman, and Anton Alba. We get together every few weeks. Sometimes Chris Michel and Dave Rickett join us. Keys sat in with us once or twice too.”
Lucier jotted down the names. “Saw Hodge this morning.” Out of the corner of his eye, Lucier noticed Chenault stiffen. “Were any of them friends with Moran?”
“Couldn’t tell you. They all knew him. Like I said, we played cards occasionally, but what they did together outside of that, I couldn’t tell you. You can ask them when you check up on me. Which reminds me, how did you zero in on me, of all the friends Keys had?”
“People placed you two together recently. I’m checking the others too.”
“What people?”
“Does it matter?”
“Depends on what else they said.”
“Just that you knew each other.”
“I know a lot of people in town, Lucier. I’m an outgoing guy. Must’ve been someone at Kitty’s Kabaret. That’s where I met Keys. I liked to listen to him play. I dabble a little in the piano myself, but I’m a lightweight compared to him. I’ll miss him. He was a great entertainer.”
“They said you went there occasionally with a lady. Mind telling me her name?”
The sounds of restaurant noises and orders yelled to the kitchen filled the room. Chenault took his time answering.
&n
bsp; “This is more than a friendly lunch, isn’t it? Now you’re digging into my personal life. You think I had something to do with Keys’s death, say so.”
“Doing my job, Denny. People at Miss Kitty’s said you sometimes picked up Keys after work. One said on the night he died. He got off at two. That’s awfully late to be picking up a friend, and you were playing cards until three, right?”
“Right. We went out some nights, had a few drinks. I need to wind down after a long shift. You know how it is. But whoever said I picked him up on the night he died was mistaken.”
Lucier gave him that point, but he forged ahead with his questions anyway. “Ever been to his place?”
“Yeah, a couple of times. Friends hang out sometimes. Keys had been to my place too. You have many friends, Ernie?”
“Some longtime pals. Don’t have much time for them anymore.”
“Yeah, I guess your girlfriend fills up your days, and nights.”
“Only my off-duty time.” Lucier had all he could do to restrain his anger. Chenault was baiting him. “Which reminds me, you didn’t answer my question. Who’s the lady you took to Kitty’s Kabaret?”
“I’m surprised no one at Kitty’s knew her. Her name’s Jaycee Diamond. She’s a stripper a couple of blocks from Kitty’s, and she gives good head. Want her number?” Chenault stared at Lucier with a crooked smile.
“Sure.” He wrote down the number. “I’ll check her out.”
“Professionally, I’m sure. I doubt Ms. Racine would like it if you checked out Jaycee’s, um, expertise.”
“I doubt she would.” The old friction between the two sparked. Lucier was getting pissed.
“Keys work for her way back? He mentioned he did during the incident with the serial killer, before she moved here permanently for a certain police lieutenant.”
“Yeah. She’s distraught about his murder.”
“Read where she went to the crime scene. Did she get one of her ― what do you call them ― revelations?”
Lucier ground his teeth to keep from saying something nasty. “Nope, nothing. We hoped she’d see his killer. She’s always said she’s not infallible. I can attest to that.”